


Nothing

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Bloodplay, Bondage and Discipline, Gore, M/M, Power Play, Rope Bondage, Sadomasochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His name is John Egbert, and he is nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdfsdfsd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdfsdfsd/gifts).



Each drip of blood on the floor was like another testament to his failure, breath coming in bated gasps through clenched teeth. He had failed his master, and he deserved this. The red hot embers of pain streaking through his veins with each crack of the whip were all his fault. Everything was his fault. He was nothing. 

“This is what happens when you disobey,” hissed a gritty, throaty voice, right up against his ear and filled with malice. Fear filtered through him, cold and refreshing, like a glass of cold water poured right into his bloodstream. Pinpricks of terror rose on his skin, exhilarating, and almost too much too much too much-

“I told you not to speak out of line,” the voice came again, hot breath fanning out over his cheek and making him whimper, “but you didn’t listen, did you?”  
Crack. 

The whip struck his bare back again, a muffled cry escaping him as ribbons of crimson burst from the wounds. He felt the cold fear being replaced by burning in his gut, one that made him dually excited and disgusted with himself. The heat of pain was mingling with the heat of pleasure, the sick, twisted sense of satisfaction that locked up his throat whenever Karkat treated him like this. He almost wanted to cry with the intensity of it.   
He didn’t dare. 

“You’re nothing, you know. Without me, you’re useless.”   
The ropes around his wrists burned as he strained against them, stiff fingers cracking as they stretched and curled repeatedly. He wanted to touch his master, hold him, do anything. He needed to, it was eating him alive.   
Crack.

“Stop moving.”

A hand curled around his leaking arousal, giving a firm squeeze and forcing him to bite his tongue hard so not to give a wail of relief. His hips bucked against his own will, just slightly, and the hand was gone, making him sob weakly at the loss.   
“You’re such a freak.” Clawed fingertips skimmed feather-light over his chest, and he felt dried blood flake off of his body like rust. He was so turned on that it hurt, he felt like he was going to burst and Karkat wasn’t giving him anything. 

Finally, the words that he had been desperate for came through black lips covering sharp fangs.  
”You can speak.”

Words rushed out of his mouth in incomprehensible babbles, begs and pleads and cries, desperately needing to feel Karkat’s touch. He needed something, anything, because he was so hard that it hurt and he was desperate, gasping and choking over his own words like he had just surfaced from drowning. He was hyper-aware of the smirk on Karkat’s face, and the slide of congealing blood down his back, and the tears pricking desperately at the corners of his eyes. 

Finally, fucking finally, Karkat was touching him, hands sliding everywhere and smearing the blood around, making him feel a mixture of humiliated and exhilarated, and he felt like he could explode at any moment and his insides would paint the walls like the most elegant shade of Gore Red from Home Depot. 

And the hand was back around him, curled tightly, long fingers coiling like a snake and making him wail with need, the monster in front of him panting and coaxing him on with sharp-tongued lashes and growled insults, until his entire body was shaking with the force of it and he was collapsed into a pile of his own mingled blood and release. 

He felt more dead and more alive than he’d ever felt before, a filthy heap of bones and flesh and blood, the ropes around his wrists released. He barely noticed, until Karkat was pressing little kisses to the rope-burned red flesh, drawing an exhausted whimper from him. He felt dirty, and twisted, but at the same time so good and even better with the troll whispering apologies even though he knows he did everything perfectly. 

His name is John Egbert, and he is nothing.


End file.
